


The Ordinations of Fate

by satb31



Series: Valentine's Day Drabbles [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, M/M, Museums, Paris (City), Reincarnation, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac meet on a train to Paris -- each thinking that they may have met before -- and end up spending the day together exploring the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ordinations of Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eirenical (chibi1723)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/gifts).



> The title comes from a quote by Friedrich Schiller: "Full of wisdom are the ordinations of fate."

“Is this seat taken?” a deep honeyed voice asks, disturbing Combeferre’s reverie.

Combeferre’s first instinct is to be annoyed: he is immersed in his book, and the train is half empty, so he is not eager to share the table space with another person. But the moment he glances up at the questioner, he is struck by something in his face -- not simply its handsomeness, but its familiarity. “No, not at all,” he murmurs, gathering his papers and picking up his coffee cup in order to make room for the young man to take a seat opposite him. As the dark-haired man swings his suitcase on to the rack above them, Combeferre studies him closely -- his slight build, his curls, his expensive sweater-- and tries to discern where he may have met him before.

“Do I know you?” the young man asks as he takes his seat, almost as if he is reading Combeferre’s mind. “Are you a student at the law school or something?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I don’t study the law,” he explains. “History.”

“Here in France?” the young man asks. His eyes are a deep brown, and are inquisitive, interested.

“No, no. The States. Harvard,” Combeferre says, then regrets saying it, as he thinks it sounds pretentious. “I’ve been travelling around the south of France doing research for my dissertation. I’m Combeferre, by the way,” he says, extending his hand. 

“Courfeyrac,” the dark haired man says, holding it for just a moment too long, his eyes never leaving Combeferre’s. “I’ve been a lazy asshole for two whole weeks at my parents’ house. But now I’m going back to Paris to start a job on Monday.” He scowled, displaying his obvious disdain for the whole enterprise. “What about you?”

Combeferre shrugs and looks out the window, watching the French countryside rumble by as the train picks up speed. “I have a flight back to Boston tomorrow afternoon, so I’m probably just going to wander around the city and see some of the sights. You know, go up the Eiffel Tower, run around the Louvre, the usual tourist stuff. It’s my one night in Paris, so I figured I’d make the best of it.”

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Courfeyrac declares, leaning back and sipping his coffee.

As the journey proceeds they find themselves in a long conversation -- Combeferre talks about his upbringing in Boston, his family, his love of history, and his research, while Courfeyrac fills in details about his experiences as a law student and about his wealthy yet eccentric family. The ease with which they talk with each other is apparent from the get go -- it doesn’t take long before Combeferre feels as if he is talking to an old friend, rather than just a random man who happened to sit across from him on the train.

The three and a half hours go by in a flash, and before they know it they are arriving at the Gare de Lyon; when Combeferre boarded the train, he was hoping the trip would go by quickly, but now he is sad to see it already coming to an end.

“Do you need a tour guide?” Courfeyrac suddenly says, almost as if he is reading Combeferre’s mind. “I’ve lived in the city for a while, and can show you all the hot spots. I don’t have anything planned tonight, and -- I’m enjoying this?”

It’s an offer that surprises Combeferre -- but it’s even more surprising to himself when he promptly agrees. 

**  
The weather is about as perfect as it can be for an early June day, even a little warm; as they exit the station Combeferre strips off the plaid shirt he was wearing and ties it around his waist. Courfeyrac offers to stash his luggage at his apartment, so they take the Metro there and walk a few blocks to his building. It’s a third floor walk-up, and by the time they reach the top Combeferre is huffing and puffing, but the effort is worth it: the place is a airy little refuge, with large windows and decorated with vintage black and white photographs. 

“You live alone?” Combeferre asks, attempting to sound casual -- he assumes that Courfeyrac must have a girlfriend or boyfriend somewhere, as experience has taught him that men like him don’t tend to be single.

“I do,” Courfeyrac answers, as he flips through his mail. “I used to live with someone, but he -- well, let’s just say he found a better offer,” he explains offhandedly. “Are you with someone?” he asks, clearly not sharing Combeferre’s reluctance to be direct. 

Staring at his shoes, Combeferre shakes his head. “I’m not very good at relationships,” he confesses, recalling the various stops and starts his love life has taken in recent years. 

Courfeyrac tosses his papers on the kitchen table and walks into his bedroom. “That’s just because you haven’t been in the right one yet,” he calls out as he strips off his sweater and starts rustling around in one of his dresser drawers. 

“That assumes there is a right one,” Combeferre replies, peering at one of the photographs of Courfeyrac, standing with what looks like his family on a beach somewhere, trying not to watch his new friend as he changes his clothes -- although he cannot help but to notice how attractive he looks with his shirt off. “Maybe I pissed someone off in a past life and I’m destined to be alone.”

“I highly doubt that,” Courfeyrac says as he returns, now clad in a green t-shirt and skinny jeans that show off his muscular frame so well that Combeferre instinctively sucks in his stomach, very aware of the copious amounts of bread he has consumed since his arrival in France. “I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I think you’ll make some man very happy someday,” he says, suddenly very serious.” Now, let’s go see the city, shall we?”

Combeferre nods -- and follows him down the stairs and into the warm Paris afternoon.

**  
True to his word, Courfeyrac is a gallant tour guide, patiently waiting in line with him to go up the Eiffel Tower, where he snaps a picture of Combeferre posing at the top that he can post on his Instagram account, and braving the crowds with him at Notre Dame until Combeferre becomes so frustrated with the jostling tourists that he walks away in frustration.

“So where do we go next?” Courfeyrac asks him as they pause at a nearby cafe to gather their wits.

Combeferre sighs. “Do we dare tackle the Louvre?” he proposes, wary after his experience at the cathedral. “I feel like I have to, just in case I never get back to Paris.”

Chuckling, Courfeyrac pats his arm. “You will come back to Paris. I saw the look in your eyes when you saw the view of the city. You’re a goner,” he teases, his lips pursed in a flirtatious grin. “Plus you will need to come back and visit me, right?”

“Of course,” Combeferre says, fervently wishing banter was something that had been taught during his many years of school.

“But let us attempt the Louvre,” Courfeyrac says. “They are open late tonight -- and I know all the best shortcuts,” he adds with a wink. “What do you want to see?”

“Show me the 19th century galleries,” Combeferre replies without thinking -- he has always had a soft spot for the Romantics. “Not the Mona Lisa.”

“Done,” Courfeyrac says, gulping down the last of his coffee and putting down his cup triumphantly. “And I assure you, it would be biggest letdown since Oscar Wilde saw Niagara Falls.”

As it turns out, Courfeyrac’s family is some sort of patron of the museum, which allows them to skip past the long lines and into the galleries. Once inside, he deftly maneuvers his way to the galleries Combeferre is most interested in -- starting with the collection of works by David, where Combeferre is quick to turn his nose up at some of the subjects.

“Napoleon,” Combeferre sneers, looking up at the famous picture of his coronation.

“Not a fan?” Courfeyrac asks, sidling up to stand beside him.

Combeferre sighs. “I’ve spent several years of my life studying French history, and I have never been able to figure him out,” he explains. “I know some of his reforms were transformative, but somehow -- I just can’t stand the man. I have no idea why.”

“I had a -- well, let’s just call him a friend,” Courfeyrac says, although his eyes betray the fact that he had considered this person something other than a friend at one time. “He had such a thing for Napoleon. I never quite got it either. But there were lots of things about him I didn’t get.”

“Do you still talk to him?” Combeferre probes him further, wanting to know more.

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “No,” is his simple reply. “I do believe he is very happy with his girlfriend now.”

“Ah, I see,” Combeferre nods sympathetically, as they move on from the Neoclassical galleries toward those containing the mid-century masterpieces. As they enter the room featuring large canvases by Delacroix, they are both instantly drawn to the same painting, depicting revolutionaries at the barricades. 

“One of my favorite paintings of all time,” Courfeyrac declares. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“To me it just captures the essence of its time,” Combeferre says, his eyes never leaving the painting as he pores over every corner of the canvas. “These young men, willing to give up their lives for a cause? It’s just incomprehensible today.”

“I’d do it,” Courfeyrac asserted. “In a heartbeat.”

Combeferre looks over at him, stunned. Who is this man? he thinks, although he somehow knows that he would fight beside this man anytime, anywhere.

**  
As they leave the museum, dusk is beginning to settle upon the city. Their path takes them along the Seine, where the streetlights are starting to come on. “L’heure bleue,” Courfeyrac calls it, and although Combeferre’s French is rudimentary, he knows exactly what he means. 

“It’s funny,” Combeferre says as they stroll along. “I’ve really never been here before, other than passing through on my way to the South -- but it almost feels like I know this place. Not knowing in the sense of understanding it -- but knowing my way around at least.”

“Funny that you say that, because I have to say I felt the same way when I moved here for university,” Courfeyrac says. “Maybe I was a Parisian in a past life,” he jokes.

“Maybe we both were,” Combeferre muses. 

“Do you truly believe that?” Courfeyrac asks him, his dark eyes narrowing skeptically. “I mean, in reincarnation?”

Combeferre nods. “I do. Lots of great thinkers did. Not that I’m any sort of great thinker or anything.” he corrects himself, always highly conscious of the possibility he sounded arrogant. “But it seems like a waste, doesn’t it? To just live one life?”

“Depends what kind of life you’re leading, I suppose. Or who you’re spending it with,” replies Courfeyrac.

“But it would be people you were meant to spend it with, right?” Combeferre asks, his brow crinkling as he ponders the question. Maybe Courfeyrac is the man I was meant to spend it with, he thinks, then banishes the thought from his head as soon as it appears.

Courfeyrac chuckles and throws his arm around his shoulders -- to Combeferre’s delight. “I think it’s more likely you were meant to buy me a drink, mon cher.”

**  
Dinner is a lengthy affair that takes place at a restaurant not far from Courfeyrac’s apartment Courfeyrac orders for the two of them, including expensive wine -- all to be charged to Courfeyrac’s father’s credit card, Combeferre is relieved to discover -- and they sit outside, enjoying the warm evening and the exquisite food. Their conversation meanders into the realm of politics -- where they mostly find agreement, although Combeferre cannot help but to argue with him on a couple of points.

“It’s hard to believe it’s only June 5th,” Courfeyrac remarks over dessert, as he lights up a cigarette. “It’s not normally this warm this early,” he adds, pushing the pack toward Combeferre, who surprises himself and takes one. He hasn’t ever smoked in his life -- but somehow it seems right in that moment, even though he chokes the first time he inhales.

“Why did you offer to take me around the city?” Combeferre asks when he can finally breathe again. It’s a question he’s been dying to ask all day, and the wine is loosening his tongue. “Do you make a habit of befriending strangers on trains?”

“Honestly? I have no idea,” he replies with a shrug. “I thought I knew you from somewhere but I couldn’t figure out where.” He takes the last forkful of his dessert and chews thoughtfully for a moment. “But why did you say yes?”

Combeferre takes another, more successful drag on his cigarette. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “But I’m glad I did,” he adds, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. He feels comfortable with him in a way he’s never felt with another person before.

“So do you have a place to stay tonight?” Courfeyrac asks, stubbing his cigarette out and picking.

Combeferre shakes his head. “I was planning to find a place out by the airport.”

Courfeyrac rises to his feet and offers Combeferre his hand. “Come sleep with me instead,” he offers, a huge grin on his face.

And Combeferre takes it, knowing as soon as the offer is made that there is no way he can possibly refuse.

**  
The route back to Courfeyrac’s apartment is a circuitous one, and ends up taking them through the Place de la Bastille, where they pause for a moment to gaze up at the monument -- and an inexplicable shiver runs down Combeferre’s spine. “Why do I get the strange feeling I’ve been here before?” he asks, his voice trembling as he says it. “And somehow I have a feeling it didn’t end well.”

Courfeyrac reaches over and puts his arm around him, rubbing his shoulders. “This time you’ll get a happy ending,” he murmurs, turning Combeferre’s face toward his -- and kissing him tenderly on the mouth. “I promise.”


End file.
